


Graveyard Remembrances

by auburncursed



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, RIORDAN Rick - Works, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Could Be Canon, Gen, Grief, Lethe - Freeform, M/M, Memories, Nico di Angelo is sad, OOC?, Set at no particular time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 19:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15298362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auburncursed/pseuds/auburncursed
Summary: / Niccolò di Angelo is eating a bagel when he realises that he can’t remember anything about his grandparents, or when he was born. That in itself is not surprising: he has accepted that there are some parts of his life he will not remember for years, since outbursts and pleas to Hades gave him precious little but sadness, and he decided not to break his heart striving for paltry details about a mother he cannot really remember from a father who does not really care. But, still. What if his mother had siblings, if there was anyone important in his life that he will never know about. The idea that he might have completely forgotten uncles or aunts, either decrepit or most likely, dead, is something he does not want to quite grasp. /Or, Nico returns to Venice, seventy-eight years later.





	Graveyard Remembrances

Niccolò di Angelo is eating a bagel when he realises that he can’t remember anything about his grandparents, or when he was born. That in itself is not surprising: he has accepted that there are some parts of his life he will not remember for years, since outbursts and pleas to Hades gave him precious little but sadness, and he decided not to break his heart striving for paltry details about a mother he cannot really remember from a father who does not really care. But, still. What if his mother had siblings, if there was anyone important in his life that he will never know about. The idea that he might have completely forgotten uncles or aunts, either decrepit or most likely, dead, is something he does not want to quite grasp.

 

It had been a painful decision for him to return to Italy. Bianca and him had wondered, sometimes, at Westover, the gaps in their memory sometimes poking through the mist when they wondered about their family. Nico couldn’t remember his last name for a few startling minutes as he tried to research his family tree for his social studies class, and Bianca was at a loss. It felt a bit like giving up forever, returning without her to the streets of Venice, the odd bridge or canal that would stir up some undefinable emotion and choke the back of his throat with the weight of forgotten importance. The Venetian Grand Canal especially, he was holding back tears because he could see flashes of his mother smiling down at him, walking alongside.

 

Not knowing any of the modern restaurants on the street, Nico had finally caved against his hopes and gone to Starbucks for a frappuccino, relishing in the familiarity of whipped cream and sugary caffeine. Fiddling idly with his straw, he’d caught sight of a head of curly brown hair in the crowd, someone half-remembered, someone or something from the past. The person disappeared into the square, that fragment of meaning melted away.

 

He’d forgotten all about that until later, having been prompted with a twinge of regret about the graves, and, having found the cemetery he could vaguely remember going to for his uncle’s funeral, dreary and grey to his young eyes then, he set out with the aid of Google Maps to a florist for lilies to put on the di Angelo graves.

 

Using his phone, and especially data roaming, seemed to attract monsters like nothing else. Nico must have slaughtered a dozen or so on the long walk to the port. The short alleys filled him with mild nostalgia, glimpses of events and things he should have known.

 

Finally, his boots a bit dusty with the glittering remains of several aggressive owl monsters, who he’d been forced to end after their repeated attempts to bite him, he arrived at the dock from which he could take a ferry to the isola di San Michele. There was a surprising amount of tourists on the boat, and holding the grimy plastic rails tightly with his left hand did nothing to assuage his seasickness, knuckles white around the bundle of lilies in his right, and his breaths shallow.

 

He caught sight of someone, the brown hair he’d glimpsed earlier, and, determined not to let this chance slip away, walked quickly to the other side of the boat. The brown-haired man looked young, though with a mildly ageless quality that most gods or monsters shared, a bit lonely looking out onto the sea. It felt wrong, for him to look so sad. Nico sat down next to him, examining his face curiously for any sign of who he was. The man turned, and his face was immediately joyful, though it seemed pasted on, a shoddily made smile crafted too quickly for real emotion.

 

“Who are you?” Nico asked.

 

“I- ve, Feliciano. Feliciano Vargas.” He paused, cocking his head slightly, and looked a bit confused. “You are... Niccolò di Angelo? Are you related to-“

 

His voice must have triggered some memory in Nico, because there was a flood of story-feeling, neutrons and memory long erased-

 

His mother was singing, war songs that she’d torn her throat out of heart for weeks before the concert, songs for the troops and Mussolini. Niccolò’s family was certainly upper-class, Bianca and him taught the classical Latin hymns and French as well as English along with their Italian studies. They’d smiled and mingled with kids of ambassadors and ministers before, but the people there were much more intimidating.

 

Nico caught sight of Mussolini himself, sipping wine and talking in low tones, not far from them. He did not look so imposing, for a leader ordering armies to Africa, the man under whose plans their neighbour Pietro had been wounded in war (a thick blonde veteran missing a leg who could always spare a smile for him and Bianca and would sometimes show them his scars from Ethiopia). This commander seemed less than the talk or politics had made him out to be, but Nico was still tempted to point at him to show Bianca, who listened to the radio religiously, her hero made flesh, but she had already gone, sparring verbally several feet away with a tall blond twelve-year-old about the definition of love.

 

Even they argued quietly, though. The hall was too big and imposing for much more, the walls with ornate detailing and huge paintings, the soft clatter of womens’ heels bringing with them snatches of quiet conversation and the scent of champagne, cologne, and expensive ties.

 

It was a political function that they would never have been invited to had one of the hosts not been a childhood schoolboy of the earlier Niccolò, Nico’s uncle who had died not long after his teens. So, now. This was a chance for Maria di Angelo and her children to show their loyalty to the cause, they had been told. To prove their trust and love for Italia and disregard the poisonous American influences.

 

It had been stressed countless times that this was something that Nico must behave for, something to spend hours preparing clothes and handshakes, to be on his very best behaviour. Nico could remember the controlled panic that permeated the house that day, a faint idea of the anxiety on his mother’s face the minutes before they arrived, the pale hands straightening her black veil hat nervously, the prayers he’d whispered under his breath and the care his mother had taken with her voice the past few days, not raising it above a quiet few words.

 

Nico had not been as bothered as the rest of the family, with a sulking air about him, but even he knew how important this was. He’d kept a smile plastered to his face the entire time, shook hands with a few coated gentleman who mostly ignored him, talked a bit with several motherly ladies over the course of night, the only adults he felt comfortable enough to approach. They pronounced him quaint and inquired politely abut his studies and favourite subjects for a few minutes, then moved on.

 

One man did, though. With a shade of reddish brown hair Nico secretly envied, and clear skin, he looked perfect, and very handsome. He was friendly, smiling, asked Nico questions about where he was from, what he liked, and they seemed genuine, and very enthusiastic about pasta. Nico had been talking to him for about fifteen minutes before he realised that he hadn’t asked the man anything, or reciprocated interest, instead acting like one of those impolite boors his mother had told them a thousand times not to be.

 

“So, ah... What about you? Pardon me, signore, but what is your name?”

 

Nico was not very smooth, but the man did not seem to mind. “Ve- Feliciano Vargas-“

 

“So, Signore Vargas-“

 

“Ve- just Feliciano, passerotto, just Feliciano. “

 

Nico talked to him for the rest of the evening. When his eyes were beginning to feel too heavy to stay open and he held back a yawn, the dinner finally came to a close, and it was time to say goodbyes. Feliciano returned his enthusiastic ‘arrivederci’, but caught his arm before he could leave.

 

His eyes became unusually serious. “You will do great things, bambino. Italy will always welcome you.”

Nico could not quite remember the rest of the night, but he knew that he must have thanked the host and said his goodbyes and fallen asleep in his bed at some point.

 

But- Feliciano Vargas. This was the same man? He realised that he had not responded, staring atVargas, and the man looked mildly panicked, rummaging in his bag for something that looked like a surrender flag. Nico was also still holding his bouquet of lilies. He hurriedly set them on the seat.

 

“Yes, my name is Niccolò di Angelo. I- you. I met you in -“

 

What had been the year, then? Nico couldn’t remember, but he had been thinking about Mussolini, and Africa- he had been nine, maybe?

 

Nico hazarded a guess. “1940?”

 

Feliciano choked, and began to wave his surrender flag in earnest, a small white sheet flapping in the wind and drawing the attention of everyone else on the ferry.

 

“Who are you? What are you? Ve.. Nico from the Partito Nationale Fascista? You’re definitely an Italian citizen, but- ve, you haven’t aged much...”

 

“And who are you?” Nico challenged, “More specifically, what are you? Some sort of Italian deity? Monster?”

 

“Italia settentriona-“

 

But the ferry was close to decking, and Vargas took his chance, running fast and disappearing into the hills at the edge of the cementery. Had he just been about to say Northern Italy? Nico slowly got off the ferry and, holding his lilies in one hand, made his way to the cemetery. A dingy wood sign read ‘SAN MICHELE’ and the gate, dark but rusting, was easily opened to view of hills stretching far and wide, all covered in tombs. 

 

It took him three hours to find his mother’s grave. There were five Niccolò di Angelos on the di Angelo plot, and so many more dead family: a Margherita di Angelo, Guido di Angelo, Lodovico di Angelo, once Machiavelli, a Bernardo di Angelo, Baccina di Angelo, once Medici, a Stefano di Angelo... It was overwhelming. He did not have enough lilies for all of them, so he lay them at the stone of his mother.

 

Some things were better off unknown.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I used to be into Hetalia but I haven’t really been into it for a while, so probably OOC lol.


End file.
